Take your red bikinis and your lamborghinis
Take your tans and your men with the spray in their hair
Take your tasteless beers and your ill-replenished beach
Take your tacky houses that you built on the sea

That'll just wash away in the next hurricane
But it don't matter now, and you'll just build 'em up again
And they'll be bigger, and faster, and stronger than before
Till they pick up their skirts and they walk down the street
Saying "Fuck all y'all, we're moving to the country... "

So they plop down and call themselves luxury suites
A name that a man invented in his sleep
Now the driveways are filled with lamborghinis
And the backyards are filled with red bikinis
And that poor little piece of fertile country
Could have been growing some for a factory to reap
To process and package for a family to eat
Who look with envy at that house on the street

What they don't know is that those people
Have got nothing that'll last
Cause they don't even really know their own kids
Who'll get good grades in school
And fill their days up with things
And who don't realize that they can't even think
For themselves and don't even know how to ask why
Cause they're told what to think
And what they're told is a good-for-nothing, dirty, rotten scoundrel of a lie